


holding pieces of burning ember

by l0velikeoxygen



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cats, High School, Homophobic Language, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-09-05 10:57:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l0velikeoxygen/pseuds/l0velikeoxygen
Summary: In-between exams and peer pressure, Jeno meets Jaemin, who dreams of being both a good son and a shining star – and in-between reality and fantasy, they both meet Renjun.





	1. by the sea

**Author's Note:**

> title from kremlin dusk by utada hikaru
> 
> also at the moment, the tags don't make much sense but will be explained a bit later down the line ie. the next chapter. 
> 
> pls bear the tags in mind. usage of derogatory slurs in one scene.
> 
> \- mars x

**1**

_Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red._

“...That being said, stem cell research is frowned upon by activists who believe that, in theory, the embryo from which the stem cells are taken from is a potential life,” the teacher explains. Jeno taps his pen against his desk, trying to string those words together in a shorter sentence for his notes. Instead, he settles for _stem cells = maybe bad(?)_ and figures that he'll remember it when revising for the test. 

“Do you have any thoughts? Do you believe the potential good outweighs the bad?”

Nobody stirs. Figuring he's not safe from random selection, he shuffles further into his chair and avoids all eye contact with the teacher. Biology _isn't_ his subject. He chews at the end of the pen and wonders, absentmindedly, what life would be like without school. It'd probably save him a lot of hassle from bored peers, sure, and he wouldn't have to stay up until midnight with his nose stuck in an overly complicated textbook, but what would he do without any qualifications? His father might let him work at the mechanics – he can reach the paint cans on the top shelves now – but Jeno isn't _that_ type, either.

He's not particularly athletic. Not particularly _academic_ , for that matter. Being stuck in the uncomfy middle has been his curse since birth – he can get good grades, but it takes up his entire life, and he can score goals in football, but he'll never make the team. Other extra-curricular activities have never appealed, either – music isn't his niche, and neither is art. He can play a few chords on the guitar and sketch a decent apple, but it's not _him_.

So, he's stuck with school. He could drop out if he liked, couldn't he? Tell the system to fuck off and just give up, right? Because although slow and steady wins the race, he just wishes that he'd grow up a bit damn faster and be through with this endless dream chasing and crushing. 

Thinking hard, Jeno bites down at the tip of his pen. Before he realises what he's done, having split the plastic, his hands are dripping with ink. 

“Sir?” he says, raising a blue hand, and the teacher wordlessly dismisses him to the bathroom with a half-sympathetic, half-annoyed look. Attempting to not touching anything in vain, he shoves the door open with his shoulder and hastily paces down the corridor to the bathroom.

In a spiralling vortex of soap suds and cyan water, he imagines a deep ocean. One without fish, just deep blue waves, and one that extends beyond his peripheral vision. Expansive and wide, an ocean that he'd easily get lost in. Without thinking, he falls into its grasp. It swallows him whole, and in its hold, he sinks and sinks and sinks until he feels like the Earth could not possibly be this deep, and then he sinks some more. In this ocean, he can no longer see the sunlight – in fact, it's so dark that the sun can't possibly even _exist_. Did it in the first place? When he was on dry land? From where he is now, deep within the stomach of the sea, that feels like a dream ago.

Except it's not – not really, at least. His eyes snap open and it's him, not drenched in seawater or sticky with seaweed, in the same old uniform, in the same old bathroom. His hands are clean of blue, but his mind is stained with the image of an inky abyss.

“This is getting old now,” he mutters, frustrated. He shakes the water off of his hands and sighs; this isn't right, not any longer. He shouldn't be fantasising about this, not _now_ – he shouldn't idealise it – shouldn't romanticise it. He's fifteen now. Why can't he just grow out of this pathetic obsession? Why can't he just dream of something mundane, like winning some superficial award or being valedictorian?

Except –

Except _nothing_. He tries to brush off that feeling and, failing, he gives up and heads back to class with his head still submerged in the sea.

“I thought you'd gone missing,” the teacher mutters, disinterested as he is now knee-deep in marking papers. “There should be a worksheet on your desk.”

Right. Okay, that's not too bad. He shuffles back to his seat, ready to repeat the same crisis he's been having for sixteen years. The clouds shift in the window next to his seat, unsettled by his momentary disappearance, and frown down upon him as he stares at the words in front of him. Nothing makes sense; not even the sky. 

**2**

_False face must hide what the false heart doth know._

In the midst of flashing lights and bottomless diet drinks, Jaemin decides, rather too late, that the worst thing in the world – not to be overdramatic, of course – is not the effort he pours into his performances, but the result. No matter how hard he tries, he's not satisfied. Dissatisfaction haunts him like a heavy ghost that hangs on his shoulders, shrouding him in a fog of disappointment that he spends half of his time trying to shake off. 

It doesn't show. He looks in the mirror, and it's fine. Fine to the extent that a smile still plasters itself on his face and refuses to peel off – somewhere, sometime, he read that smiling uses less muscles than frowning. In the back of his head, he wonders how many extra minutes of exercise Jisung is cramming in if that's the case. 

Either way, it's not an excuse to slack off. Not that he tries to, but – it's _hard_. It's hard and it's terrible, that everlasting fatigue that refuses to budge, and even when he's pushing through the quicksand of exhaustion, it just pulls him down further. Lactic acid licks at his muscles, weighing him down, but he can do this. He promised.

Jaemin, however, never promised to perfect. He sacrificed that opportunity when he whittled down the time he had to study to a mere thirty minutes a night, hacking away chunks of his grades until he scrapes by mere fractions of what he used to achieve. It grates on him, that constant feeling of _not good enough_ , but it's okay. It's okay because it _has_ to be okay.

“You look like you're having a midlife crisis,” Donghyuk observes. “The coffee’s wearing off, huh? Guys, I think he's gonna need another shot!”

“It's fine. Don't worry,” Jaemin laughs, “it's nothing.”

“Can _nothing_ wait?” Jisung grumbles. “Practice makes perfect.”

Jaemin shakes his head. “It's just homework.”

“Seriously? That sucks, man,” Mark says. Over-enthusiastic, Jaemin notes. It's not that big of a deal and, even if it was, it still would not be bad enough to elicit such a reaction. He shakes off the feeling of attention and decides to just stop talking about it altogether. He'll address the problem when he comes to it.

“It's okay. Dance, right? Dance, dance, dance,” Jaemin says. He struggles to be enthusiastic, and it's clearly obvious, but nobody presses the issue. To be fair, it's not worth the effort. 

By the time they're done, he's sweating and spent, but he has to push away the option of a shower after practice – if he didn't, he'd have less time to study, and that's not really a good idea. He's done that before, and his report card certainly wasn't winning any favours from his parents. 

Jaemin decides to camp out at a café – going home is usually followed by an argument, so it's safer to wait it out until his parents are almost definitely asleep to go home. That means he'll only get a maximum of five or so hours of sleep, sure, but to save himself the energy of arguing, it's a fair trade.

He drinks another coffee, much to the confusion of the waitress, who simply looked at the clock with a strange expression, and structures his essay on cell specialisation. It's the worst part of Biology, and is seldom interesting to write about, so his writing is far from precise and, more importantly, far from high marks.

It's not easy, balancing _this_. This meaning anything from homework to dancing to generally existing. At times, it's like being a lemon completely squeezed dry of everything he's got to give, which might not be all that much in the first place. Jaemin doesn't place what he's feeling in the category of sadness, just off. Most of the time, his friends are great and his parents want the best for him. Other times, it's just like this – just tiring. His entire body aches for something, but he's not sure for what or why.

In the end, his essay ends up unfinished. He'll just take a sick day tomorrow, write up another draft, sleep. The last time he got a solid eight hours must have been when he was, like, seven. Walking home, he thinks of what his first award will feel like, how debuting will be exciting and fun and carefree. How the future is better, _honest_. How all these petty worries will fade away into insignificance and, in a few years, he'll graduate with his friends and –

– the future is going to be so much more special. Full of memories, full of success, full of –

**3**

_Something wicked this way comes._

“No, I saw it,” the boy drawls, tongue heavy with intended insult. “Totally faggy.”

“If that's not the gayest thing I've ever seen,” the other scoffs. His hand is blue with the cold, cigarette vibrating between shaking fingertips, but the school gates are only unlocked at seven; ten more minutes, Jeno notes, and then he'll be able to melt into the radiator. As for now, he's stuck listening to some brain-dead discussion on something _faggy_ – which, more often than not, is probably extremely inoffensive. Jeno wants to laugh, but there's no point. He could say something, but –

“Lee!” one says. He has a stern face, one of thick eyebrows that dip downwards to create a perpetually terrifying impression, and Jeno isn't one to go against the status quo. He'll just nod – can't say anything – won't –

“You’ve seen the fag, haven't you?”

Swallowing, Jeno half-murmurs, “No, I haven't. Who is – um –”

“Just this kid in our year. Pink hair, man. Fuckin’ gay.”

“Well, no,” Jeno whispers, “but, I mean, what would it matter if – I think it's just rude to assume, and if he was, then it's really none of _my_ business – and pink isn't really for girls or boys, right? My dad has a pink shirt, right? And he's straight, because he married my mum, and – and I just don't think it's _right_ – to say – I mean, no offense to you, but –”

 _Shit_. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” Jeno says, tugging nervously at the strings of his hoodie. “Just ignore me.”

“You got something you wanna say, Lee?” the other says, dropping his cigarette. “Huh?”

“No. No, I'm fine, let's just –” Jeno bites his lip. This is fine. This is fine, this is _fine_. They can't do anything. School is opening soon. He can lock himself in a bathroom stall and pray that they're stupid, which might not require all that much prayer – “I'm just saying that maybe it's not right to say. I mean, you _can_ , but there's no reason to be mean.”

“You like fags?” the first one asks. He's uncomfortably close, within a hair’s breadth, and if Jeno gets punched now, he's going to vomit. 

And it goes against every cell in Jeno’s body, and it _hurts_ , but he simply says, “No.”

“Good,” he spits, “‘cos I was starting to think.”

The caretaker shuffles out, dressed in the same dirty overalls as he is everyday, and slips the lock off the gates. Jeno scrambles up from where he was perched on the wall and paces straight into the building, making a beeline for the toilets and locking himself inside a cubicle to take a few shallow breaths. He's a bad person. He really is. He really doesn't deserve to feel sorry for himself – he doesn't –

It feels like an eternity of waiting. Jeno can't stop biting his lip, staring at the ceiling as a shallow current of regret washes over his entire being. He could’ve said nothing – he didn't have to say no. They knew, they _know_ , and the fact that he said no didn't change anything. It was wrong. He was wrong. He's a bad person and –

Footsteps echo from outside of the cubicle. The taps begin to drip into a steady flow as somebody washes their hands, singing something softly. It's such a cliché. Jeno doesn't want to move, however, for fear of it being somebody who wants to punch his lights out. Not that anybody who would do that would sing, though, and in such a nice voice. It's some idol song, something that Jeno usually skips with a vengeance but ends up getting drilled into his ears anyway; light, cheery, a little meaningless.

The heavy ocean is drowning, but this is something new. A cold breath of fresh air.

“It's nice,” says Jeno, cheerfully.

A beat of silence. “Uh, thanks?” the other splutters.

“You're a good singer, I mean,” he corrects. “Your voice. It's nice.” He swallows. “I can't hold a note to save my fucking life.”

“People say that all the time,” the voice replies, gently, “but I've had training, so I obviously have the advantage. Don't compare yourself to me. Hey, are you –”

Immediately, Jeno jumps up to unlock the door, aware of how strange this setup seems, and meets _him_. Bright eyes, sharp jaw, pointed nose, defined lips. Uniform neatly ironed, an expensive leather backpack slung over one shoulder, and his hair dyed a subtle, pastel shade of pink. Well.

“Hey,” the voice, who is now smiling, says. He waves lazily. “You weren't actually going, right?”

“No. I'm hiding.”

“Oh? From who?” he laughs.

“Just some assholes,” Jeno mutters. “And you were just washing your hands.”

“Yep, hit the nail on the head,” the boy replies. “I'm Jaemin. “As you can probably see, I'm…” He touches his hair lightly. “...Fuck, it's more like straw than I remember.”

“Training?” asks Jeno. “Woah. That's cool. As I said, music isn't my –” 

“Hey! Don't say that,” Jaemin snaps, jokingly. Mid-laugh, the school bell rings. Jaemin gives it a strange look, nose screwed up. “I'm fucked. Forgot to finish my Biology essay.”

“Yeah,” Jeno says, “me too.”


	2. safe haven in the shape of a boy

**1**

_Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?_

“Y’know, I won't be offended if you say I'm boring you, but,” Jeno comments, “you look like you're about to fall asleep.” He pauses writing, placing down the pen he was holding in his hand, and meets Jaemin in his dozy, somnolent eyes. “It's okay. I get it. I'm no more interested in alleles than you are.”

Jaemin tucks his head in-between his crossed arms, just a few inches from completely flat against the table, and lazily returns the smile with little effort but significant meaning. He is _trying_ to follow – although, in Jeno’s eyes, such an attempt might seem miniscule – but it's not working, trudging through lethargy and a prominent migraine persisting at the back of his skull.

“Carry on,” Jaemin murmurs, “it's okay.”

He presses his nose against his blazer sleeve and notes the bitter aroma of somebody's cigarettes. It doesn't work – it never does. It sticks to him like glue, that pungent scent, and, beyond that, smoking is about as useful as punching a wall to get rid of a itch on your hand. Not that it _bothers_ him, it's just – why _bother_? 

Jeno doesn't pick his pen back up. He leans his head down onto the desk to mirror Jaemin, doing something in-between smiling and worriedly frowning that only Jeno can do. It's unique. Plenty of people have one or two of either extremes, but something in the middle is tricky to find. 

“You know,” Jeno mumbles, “you should sleep more.”

“I would – if I had the time,” he replies, softly, mouth barely opening for what seems like half words, half air. “I just don't. If I was more realistic – if I’d have listened to my parents – I wouldn't be trying to do this. Balancing, I guess. But it's what I've always wanted.”

“Huh? To be on TV? To sing?”

Jaemin shakes his head lightly. “It's not a general aim, it's just…” His teeth sink into his bottom lip. “I don't know. I can't just quit, though. If I give up on this, I give up on months of hard work – but, more than that, it's my – it’s my life, as miserable as it currently stands.” His eyes meet Jeno’s. “But it can't rain forever. Sometimes you've just got to accept that yes, it might be torrential right now, but the weather changes. In time, everything will come up roses.” 

“But how far away is _time_?”

“How long is a piece of string?” Jaemin asks. “I don't know. I never claimed to be a fortune teller, but there are some things that I know to be true.” He smiles. “Such as this library will shut soon. We should get lunch.”

“Ew. I'd rather die than eat cafeteria food.”

“Same,” says Jaemin, shrugging. He stretches his arms, yawning as he does, and then begins to messily stuff his worksheets into a plastic folder. “Is this it, you think?”

“Huh?”

“I dunno,” Jaemin laughs. “The best times of our lives, high school.” He buttons up his bag, paying close attention with a sudden attention to care and detail. “Or whatever. Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?” Jeno inquires. He slings his rucksack over his shoulder, eyes locked onto Jaemin. “I hardly helped. I'm terrible at school. I'm terrible at a lot of things –”

“You're so weird. You don't have to say you're bad at everything – it's not true.” He stares at the clock solemnly. “No. You're just –”

“We really have to go,” Jeno insists, “and yet I feel like there's something I haven't said yet.”

“On the tip of your tongue?”

“Yep, exactly,” Jeno affirms. “It's strange, that.”

“It'll come to you eventually. Y'know, _things_ tend to do that. Come and go, like day and night,” answers Jaemin. “Do you see what I mean? Everything falls into place. I mean – if you dream it, it'll happen. Or something along those lines.”

**2**

_There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so._

It's easy for Jeno to zone out at home – nobody ever says anything of interest, he thinks, and there's only so much meaningless, droning talk of engines and pressure and wheels that he can tolerate before he switches completely off. In return, their ears aren't open to hear tricky sentiments and moral complexes far too complicated to try and stuff into sentences. 

Most of time, he sits, curled up in his arms, on the chair shoved to the back of his father's workshop. He's read every poster, however boring, and might be able to rattle off about parts from the half-shouted lessons his father has needlessly provided him with, but it's not knowledge, just a general grudge and stabbing desire to make sure people know that he's not lagging behind. However vindictive it may seem, it's not – it can't be. He's better than that. _Bigger_ than that.

It doesn't feel so good, that motivation, but it doesn't feel so bad, either. 

The garage is in generally mediocre condition, soda cans and ramen cups strewn across the floor like landmines, and despite the dust and the stink of petroleum, it's not a god-awful place to be. He doesn't have the guts to hate it. It's better than school, at the very least. His hands and clothes always end up streaked with grime, which is painful to wash out, but it's warm, sure, and if he sticks around for long enough, his father orders jjajangmyeon for the both of them. He could walk home – it’s not like he doesn't have a key – but the house is empty and cold. Nobody's waiting for him.

Jeno has given up feeling guilty or upset about is home life. That's just how it is, no changing matters, and if anybody cares enough to give him grief about it, they'll be paying it more attention than he ever will. His father cares about him, wants him to do _well_ , but there's only so far an unfinished high school education can take his father. Still, there are plenty of cars in Seoul. The rent gets paid, and there's bread on the table – but Jeno’s hungry. Hungry for more. Hungry for a future that's so far away from possible that he might as well just settle, but he _can't_. 

That's when the ocean comes again – when he's most conflicted. Outwardly, he has a decisively minute awareness of _where_ he is – not in the middle of an ocean trench, of course – but at the same time, he doesn't. He can be in the same room as somebody else, drowning with arms flailing or accepting his fate as it is, and his face won't read any different. Quiet contemplation, perhaps, but certainly not that of a boy near seconds away from total oxygen deprivation. 

It doesn't matter. Once it's over and done with, he can store it away in the back of his mind to think about later for a strange pink-haired boy to take complete precedence over his every inconsequential thought. 

“Are you okay?” his father asks. He swallows down a legitimate answer and shrugs. “Don't you have homework to be doing?”

“No,” lies Jeno. He really can't – not now, at least. It can wait. He'd rather wallow in his own boredom than touch a pen tonight. “I'm fine.” He sighs. “Just a bit off. One of them days.”

“And school? How was that?” he asks, knee-deep in somebody's oily engine with a wrench in hand. “Do anything fun?”

“I'm not a kid, am I? There's no finger-painting or pasta collages or whatever, just simultaneous equations and bond elthalgies,” Jeno answers. “Sick of it. Sick of waiting to grow up.”

“Listen, Jeno, it won't get easier or less frustrating when you turn eighteen,” his father answers. “Ask your sister. All you get is a stack load of debt and even more unanswered questions. Eventually, you'll learn that the government wants you to think that work makes you free, but…” He shrugs. “Whatever. Either way, I can guarantee you that when you grow up, it won't be as good as you expect it to be. That's life. Make the most of being a teenager while you can, yeah?”

“It's not that easy,” says Jeno, eyes fixated on the looming sunset that leaks like an oil spill across the glossy surface of the car. It's some expensive brand, one beyond their wildest dreams, but Jeno has never really been able to comprehend that strange link between flashy cars and success. Maybe he didn't watch enough _Formula 1_ when he was a kid. “You should tell the guy who owns that car that he's a twat.”

“I know, right?” he chuckles. “Men and their cars. Honestly –” He pauses. “Nah, I shouldn't say.”

Under his breath, Jeno mutters, “They'll be first against the wall.” He's heard this a million times before. A second later, his eyes snap open. “Idols. What do you think?”

“No opinion,” his father comments. “Why? Thinking of becoming one?” He looks momentarily confused, like such an idea is entirely incomprehensible to him.

“No, not in that way,” Jeno sighs. “I just wondered. It all seems a bit fake, but it's nothing...” He tucks his head between his knees, pressed against his chest. “...Whatever. Can we have dinner soon?”

**3**

_A violet in the youth of primy nature,_  
Forward, not permanent-sweet, not lasting;  
The perfume and suppliance of a minute;  
No more. 

The truth of the matter is that, all things considered, they shouldn't be doing this. But that's what makes it interesting, right? That constant, cold fear running down your spine like a leaky tap, making everything simple and not so simple at the same time. If you have to run away, that is so, but if you don't, you've gotten away with something – and isn't that amazing, that unadulterated sense of achievement for doing something _wrong_?

Well, not wrong. The Government makes the laws, the laws don't make the people.

And this isn't against the _law_ , not really – just the laws of their parents, as if those are of any real legal consequence, and so Jeno and Jaemin continue onwards, the bottle of red wine in Jaemin’s shoulder bag, waiting to be broken into. Standing sternly. Clear as day. 

The sky is dark, and yet _darker_ still, and so Jaemin smiles as they climb another flight of the rickety apartment steps outside. Of course, Jeno can't deny the slight sting of shame that comes with living in such a downbeat area of the city, the brickwork crumbling apart to reveal the rickety skeleton of the building inside. Jaemin doesn't know why – if he started to judge people, it certainly wouldn't feel good. Cathartic, perhaps, in some cases (Jisung almost definitely does _not_ , thank you very much) and yet – in a more grounded sense – not in the slightest.

When they reach the roof, the violent winter wind cuts through their bones, causing Jeno to shiver. Jaemin just starts smiling _brighter_. Is that possible? In the darkest night, the sun must envy his dedication to the role. Jeno gestures towards his bag, and says, “Cute.”

“If you'd care to join me, Mr. Lee,” Jaemin laughs, and pries the glass from the leather interior of his bag. It probably costed a little more than Jeno would care to spend, but one cannot complain when one shouldn't even be drinking in the first place. Jeno smiles, and nods at him. “But _first_ ,” he sighs, dramatically, placing the wine down gently, “you have to pay the price!”

“Are you an actor now, hm?” Jeno asks, sluggishly shoving his hands in his jean pockets. “What's the damage?”

Jaemin’s skin is pink from the harsh scraping of the wind. “A dance,” he laughs. Oh. Oh, _well_ then.

And Jaemin is a brilliant dancer, well and truly. The subtle intricacies of his smooth movements almost completely overwhelm Jeno’s awkward structure, the tending of his shoulders and the stiffness of his legs, but he'll learn. Dancing does not come naturally to many, after all, and Jeno knows well that _nothing_ is as simple as it seems. Dancing, well…

It's not an exception, but Jaemin is quite the teacher, indicating faults with nothing but a tut of his tongue and a probing finger smoothing out the issue. It works. Jeno is almost used to the feeling of being observed when Jaemin and him are pressed so closely together, breathing in each others’ shallow breaths. It feels – right. Like there would be no better a place for Jeno to be right now other than here, wrapped in Jaemin’s arms, and for that, it's worth it.

The value is noted. “I can't help but notice your heart is pounding," Jaemin mutters. "Jeno, let me –" And without any further explanation, their mouths slide together like the splitting of the red sea – two parts of the same whole, warm and saline and sweet.

Two halves of the same whole. Jeno sees the ocean through Jaemin's watery eyes, a safe haven in the shape of a boy.

**4**

_One may smile, and smile, and be a villain._

"Have you ever been to the beach at night?"

Jaemin raises an eyebrow. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

"Are we dating?" Jeno laughs, and pinches Jaemin's cheek. "I hope so. I brought you some gloves."

Jaemin's hands are very pale and slim, but he slides on the wooden gloves with great ease. Warmth is something that Jeno craves – not _physical_ warmth, it's more than that. Just as he feels hunger for something more than food, he wants warmth that is more than just heat. And Jaemin is so beautiful and perfect, but is this what Jeno truly wants?

The building where Jaemin trains is so clean, so tidy.  
Jeno has been waiting in an empty room with bleached floorboards and a vase of lilacs to his uncomfortable seat, observing the contrast of the bright lighting to the darkness outside, how light can be completely void in one area and the opposite in another. Purple petals fall onto the floor. 

Jaemin smiles. "Isn't the beach really far away?"

"I'm not talking about a _beach_."

"What's a beach that's not a beach?" Jaemin asks, and hooks his arm together with Jeno. "Metaphorically speaking, that is, how can you take me to a beach if there's no beach?"

"The beach is in your _mind_ ," Jeno jokes. "No. We're catching the train. It should be okay. I like the darkness, too."

The beach is strange, especially at night. What is once covered in people and full of life is now lonely and cold, a blustering wind whining in the air. Jaemin is truly lovely, laughing as he runs across the sand. Is this what Jeno is missing? And is it fair to Jaemin that Jeno is completed by him, but he cannot complete Jaemin? Is his lack of _something_ tangible, or will Jaemin never truly be able to understand how much he means to Jeno?

And now, on a cold beach just outside of the city Jeno begrudgingly calls home, everything feels –

"Hey, Jeno!" Jaemin calls. "Look at this!"

_This_ , as it turns out, is a small cat, shivering as it huddles into itself. Carefully, Jaemin picks it up in his arms, smiling as he cradles it like a mother would with a child. It purrs in his hold, clearly comfortable, and stares up at Jeno with glassy, yellow eyes. Pretty. Very small, starving, and pretty. 

Jeno is reminded of the vase of lilacs – beautiful, but so fragile. The cat mewls, and Jeno says, "We should call him Lilac."

"I like that name," Jaemin laughs, softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh.....it's been half a year, sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> [my carrd](https://marsieee.carrd.co)
> 
> lots of love, mars x


End file.
